


An Uplifting and Profitable Hour

by Ptolemia



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: @god sorry abt this but at the same time its great and im not sorry at all, Blasphemy, Multi, Not actually incest, actually know where to start um, implied inappropriate use of bible quotes, implied inappropriate use of lunch as a seduction tactic, just to make that extremely clear again, they do bang in a church tho, uh i dont
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6289825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ptolemia/pseuds/Ptolemia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which our Hero/Heroine/Heroic individual of mysterious and indistinct gender attends a service at a local church, seeking self improvement, and finds something considerably more interesting instead. </p><p>(Set after the conclusion of the Melancholy Curate storyline, assumes that the player took the threesome option at the end of that storylet, leaves gender and pronouns vague although the player character is admittedly loosely based on my FL oc, Elspeth)</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Uplifting and Profitable Hour

**Author's Note:**

> yes im going to hell for writing this but you're also going to hell for reading it

You are not, by temperament, somebody who is inclined to spend a great deal of time in church – the sermons are invariably dull, the company duller, and the cheap tallow they mix in the candles makes your nose itch terribly. Despite this, you are certainly (as and when such a venture seems apt) somebody who _attends church services_ ; it's astonishing how many illicit affairs and scandalous ventures people are willing to overlook in an individual, provided they turn up at the church now and again and make sure to sit at the front and look attentive.

 

Hence, on a Sunday morning which would be considerably more pleasantly spent in bed, you are perched on an uncomfortable pew, tugging frustratedly at the over-starched collar of your shirt as you peer over your shoulder – ostensibly looking to see who is arriving, realistically aiming for maximum visibility because you'll be d-mned if you're going to have to sit through this ridiculous inconvenience without at least getting some kind of social credit out of it. Given your actual attitude to the whole affair, you suppose you might, in rather literal terms, be d-mned in any case, but you put that thought from your mind as a slender figure in dark grey slips into the nave through an inconspicuous side-door, and comes to settle on the pew next to you.

 

You catch a glance of a pale hand, a slender waist – a _very_ slender waist, you catch yourself thinking, before you recall that you are in church and God is probably listening (or is he _always_ listening? You can't remember which one is right. This is why you should come here more often...) - but before you can get a look at her face she's turned aside, leaning away from you across the aisle to exchange words with a stern spinster in a rough-spun shawl. She's terribly soft-spoken (the lady, not the spinster. The spinster is half deaf, and has Opinions. You almost want to introduce her to your aunt just to see what carnage would occur, only they might encourage each other, and _then_ where would you be?), but you cannot shake the feeling that you recognise her voice, though from where, exactly, from you are frustratingly unsure. You hesitate a moment, wanting to make some passing comment about the weather or something of the sort – anything to get her to turn round, because you are _sure_ you know that voice, and quite well at that, but it's maddeningly hard to think around the impressive brandy-induced headache pounding away behind your eyes. The spinster maintains a solid chatter, though, and it would doubtless be improper to interrupt, so you give the venture up for lost and settle back into your seat – at which point you notice that the lady has dropped a glove. Perfect! You bend to pick the glove up, satisfied that this is a reasonable excuse to interrupt the spinster's rant on - what was it, 'improper use of mushrooms'? What does that even _mean_? - well, on something foolish, anyway, and you tap the lady on the shoulder. In the scant moment it takes her to turn round, two things happen. Firstly, you actually look at the glove,and your drink-addled memory might not be excellent with voices this early in the morning but it most certainly has an _extremely_ detailed recollection when it comes to where it last saw this glove – namely, pressed up against the naked thigh of a certain Melancholy Curate of your acquaintance. Secondly, and perhaps unsurprisingly given the first revelation, you find yourself suddenly able to place the voice (and the slender waist. You _knew_ the slender waist was important, d-mn it) of the lady beside you. She turns, you try not to blush, and...

 

Yes. It's the Melancholy Curate's sister. Well. _Not_ his sister.

“Oh,” she says, with a delicate social smile which would be perfectly suitable between two vaguely acquainted people waiting for a church service to begin, “Good morning.” Her gaze remains perfectly steady, her eyes delightfully non-committal. She's _good_ at this.

You, on the other hand, are not, so you splutter slightly, press the glove into her hand, and stutter out a terse, “This- I- you dropped-”

She places her hand over yours for a fraction longer than necessary as you pass her the glove. “Clumsy of me. Thank you.”

“A matter of no importance,” you mumble, tugging at your collar again. Is it just you, or is it _very_ warm in here?

She inspects you, for a moment. “Are you quite well? You seem a little... flushed.”

“Quite alright,” you assure her, perhaps not very convincingly, given how your voice cracks slightly over the first word. You do manage to keep your eyes mostly focused on her face, though, which is something.

She smirks into the collar of her dress, but says nothing.

 

You clear your throat, turning to face the pulpit with a steadfast determination to focus your undivided attention on the sermon – whenever it is that that's going to begin. Is it just your imagination, or is Father what's-his-face, with the unpleasant whiskers, rather late starting today? You frown, vaguely recalling him mentioning something last Sunday about a possible guest speaker. Ah. Oh dear. You glance back at the curate's sister, who catches your gaze and smiles a smile which is only mostly polite. It's a smile with a hint of teeth. You rather like that smile.

“Something the matter?” she asks.

“I wondered if, perhaps, your brother would be joining us. Ought I save a space?”

“I am quite sure that he would _love_ to join us,” she says, smile widening imperceptibly, “only he'll be a little busy giving the sermon, I imagine, to come and sit over here.”

 

You laugh politely, and turn back to the front just in time to catch the Melancholy Curate hurrying up to the pulpit, a small clutch of speech cards in his hand, looking a little flustered. The speech cards are in disarray, as though they had recently been dropped, and then collected from the floor in something of a hurry. You narrow your eyes. His shirt looks as though it's been buttoned a little hastily, and his hair is distinctly ruffled. And, now you think about it, didn't he just enter from the same side-door that... you glance sidelong at his sister again, who – who you _really_ can't keep thinking of as his _sister_. It's making you decidedly uncomfortable. You suppose you could call her the Enigmatic... Gentlewoman? It might work, only you are not entirely sure she is exactly human enough for the term 'woman' to fit, and you are certain that she is not gentle. You suppose that if you end up seeing any more of her, (although admittedly, you have already seen a great deal, and very pleasant it was too) you ought to start using her real name. Elise. Hmm. Well, it doesn't have quite the same ring to it as the old one, but you suppose it will serve. Either way, you glance at her, curious, but she doesn't catch your eye. Instead, she looks the curate up and down, smug as anything, and smiles another one of those enigmatic smiles. Well. Goodness.

 

By the time you turn your attention back the front, the curate is finishing up a slightly stumbling apology for his lateness, mumbling something about tomb-colonists blocking the streets in some kind of protest, and a delayed hansom cab, and... he tails off, smiling ruefully, and clears his throat, scanning the congregation as he shuffles his papers briefly, fumbling in his pocket for his spectacles. He catches Elise's eye for a second, and some flicker of incomprehensible communication flickers between them, and then he averts his gaze, sweeping to the side and-

 

He sees you, suddenly, and clears his throat, again, looking almost as flustered as you did earlier. You almost feel sorry for him, but he seems to gather himself swiftly enough. Then his countenance settles into a perfectly stern, authorial expression, he tucks his speech cards away into his pocket, and he proceeds to make very frequent eye-contact with you for the next forty-five minutes, during which he delivers a most... _rousing_ and _emphatic_ speech on forbidden pleasures and the perils of improper lusts. It's all very, ah, very informative. You feel like you have... learned a great deal about... biblical matters. Or something of the sort. He quotes, rather extensively, which is probably payment in kind for all of those evenings of borderline salacious poetry on your part - frankly you are a little astonished that some of these words made it into the Good Book at all. Song of Songs in particular is... fascinating. He finishes his sermon with a very forceful statement about, uh – well, what it is exactly you have no idea, since you stopped being able to distinguish the words over the sound of blood rushing in your ears quite some minutes ago. Then it's over, and the congregation begin to stand, filtering into the aisle and out of the doors to the unpalatable neathy air outside. You don't move for a moment, because you are somewhat concerned that your legs might not be working properly any more. You feel... invigorated. That's a very good word for it. After another moment to catch your breath, you stand. Elise is nowhere to be seen – you suppose that she must have slipped away as soon as the sermon ended, and you find yourself strangely disappointed at that.

 

You gather your wits (what's left of them), and your umbrella, and pull the collar of your coat up as you make for the doors along with the last of the congregation – only to be stopped by a firm but gentle hand on your shoulder.

You turn, and the curate nods a greeting at you. “Good morning.”

You return the nod, but find yourself curiously unable to look him directly in the eye. “Good morning.”

“I hope you found the sermon of interest?” he says, sounding almost amused.

“It was... most informative,” you say. “Very, ah, enlivening.”

There's a slightly tense silence. It's not necessarily an unpleasant tension. His hand is still on your shoulder. “I suppose you must be terribly busy, of late, what with that business at the Palace.”

You shrug. “It's interesting work – a novel, in fact. A commission.”

“Well, if you do have a free evening from the demands of the muse sometime, you ought to visit–"

"I couldn't possibly intrude-

"You'd be most welcome.

You hesitate. "I-"

"Elise has a new volume of poetry," he says, fixing you with an inscrutably firm gaze, "And I'm afraid she's quite convinced that you would make better work of it than I do.”

“Oh?” you say, "Poetry?" You're unsure if this is an actual offer of... well. You'd rather assumed that that was a one-time-only sort of deal, although you're certainly not averse to being disabused of that assumption.

“She mocks my pronunciation,” he says, looking glum. Or, well - glummer than usual, at least. “I'm afraid she's probably quite right, but...”

“You'd like a second opinion?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“On the- you want to... read poetry?”

“I, uh,” he says, lip quirking up slightly in what looks like a – goodness, was that a _smile_? Well well well. “Your company would also be pleasant. Of course.”

“I'm flattered."

“Well, the pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

 

“And mine,” says another voice, behind you. Elise. A soft hand settles on your waist – you're alarmed for a moment (aren't there people _watching?_ ), but when you look around you realise that the church is now, bar the three of you, entirely empty. Oh, and God, of course, who may or may not be there, but you've never payed much attention to all that scriptural stuff so you're not entirely sure and, frankly, you don't particularly care.

The curate steps closer. His hand is _still_ on your shoulder.

Elise rests her chin softly on your other shoulder, and you feel her breath soft on your cheek, just the slightest fraction faster than is entirely proper. Not that anything about this is entirely proper. “Do you know,” she says, thoughtfully, “I don't believe I have anything terribly pressing to do at present.”

"Goodness," you say, with a lazy sort of anticipation tingeing your words, "how curious - I'm rather at a loose end today myself."

“Perhaps a late lunch?” says the curate.

“But,” you say, “It can't be eleven o'clock yet. Why would it need to be a late-”

Elise clears her throat, delicately. “Your shirt looks terribly uncomfortable,” she says, trailing her fingers along the over-starched edges of your collar. Your neck burns where the tips of her fingers touch.

The curate gently loosens your top button. “We could assist you with that.”

“Neighbourly concern,” she mutters.

“Anything for a friend in need,” he adds.

“Oh,” you say, “ _Oh._ Well, in that case... late lunch sounds _excellent_.”

 

And indeed, it is.

 

 


End file.
